


Scars and Tattoos

by diggorysghost (oncruisecontrol)



Series: Marauders Reader-Inserts [3]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, F/M, Fluff, Reader-Insert, Self-Harm, Sort Of, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, imagine, it's not in a sad way
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-04
Updated: 2018-12-04
Packaged: 2019-09-07 00:50:41
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,769
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16843825
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oncruisecontrol/pseuds/diggorysghost
Summary: Soulmate!AU in which wounds, scars, and tattoos that you get appears on your soulmate’s body.





	Scars and Tattoos

Thank Godric it didn’t hurt.

Here’s the thing about soulmates: whatever happens, it happens together.

To wake up one morning when you were just five years old with deep gashes across your face was perhaps the most terrifying thing you could imagine coming from this unholy way of binding soulmates, but unluckily for you, it happened. The wounds were closed quickly – most likely by magic – but the scars remained for the rest of your life. It earned you some unwanted attention when you went out, but it was something you learned to live with. After all, you weren’t alone in it.

And the scratch marks that appeared on your body monthly – you learned to live with those, too. Your looks, you figured, didn’t matter; not compared to what _they_ were going through, whoever they were.

It worried you, the idea that they were being hurt by someone or perhaps some _thing,_ but you couldn’t very well do anything about it, because until the day you found the person who had scars matching yours, you had no way of communicating with them whatsoever.

That was, of course, until you found a dreadful object in a very sketchy shop and came up with a stupid idea that anyone would have disapproved of, especially for a ten-year-old girl.

But you had loads of stupid ideas, and you knew that this wouldn’t hurt _them,_ and it would eventually heal, so it was your choice, wasn’t it?

The only problem was that they wouldn’t be able to respond, but still, it was better than nothing.

So that night you sat down at your desk, parchment in front of you and black quill in hand, and decided what you were going to say. Then, you braced yourself, squeezed your eyes shut, and began scrawling away.

_I hope ur ok._

It burned. Merlin, did it burn, but it burned only you, and that was okay. You stared at the words sliced into the back of your hand, taking deep breaths to get through it. _They_ had been through worse, you reckoned. They were strong. You could handle this.

The message wasn’t much, but you couldn’t ask questions, so all you could offer was support. You wished they could write you back, but the pain made you glad they didn’t.

Every once in a while, after the cuts healed, you’d say something more. Each time, your tolerance got a little bit higher, and you allowed yourself to write more.

_U must b brave._

_U’ll b alright._

_Can’t w8 2 meet u._

When it was time to go to Ilvermorny, you brought your quill with you, having absolutely no plans to end your tradition. With time, your hand became calloused and bumpy from the scarring, but as it was _not_ your ugliest trait, you really didn’t give a shit. At times, you became nervous that these notes would annoy them – not that you had any evidence to back up this idea, but you had none against it, either, and a rather intense case of anxiety. Still, you’d always gather up all your courage and confidence and eventually write another.

Suddenly, when you were thirteen, your best friend grabbed your wrist during a Potions class and forced your attention to the black ink that was slowly appearing on your skin, dot by dot. It took what felt like hours and you couldn’t focus on your classes for the life of you, but letters were formed one by one, until your wrist finally read, in tiny little lettering…

**Thank you.**

Your heart leapt. There, in permanent ink, were your soulmates first words to you. _Permanent,_ you thought to yourself over and over again. They’d put this on themselves _permanently._

With two words, you knew that you were already in love with them.

Halfway through that year, your family moved to Scotland, something you considered to be disastrous. Your sister, who was turning eleven soon, would be fine; she could still get into Hogwarts, or even a muggle school if she had to. For a teenage witch, however, moving meant losing your chance in both worlds. You’d stopped taking muggle classes years ago, leaving you behind in things like science and math, and transferring schools was nearly unheard of.

Which is why you were so confused when, after months of being homeschooled and trying to figure out what the hell you were going to do with your life, an owl swooped in through your chimney and dropped two letters, both stamped with Hogwarts’ seal, at your father’s feet.

As it turned out, your grades, along with a letter of recommendation from Ilvermorny’s headmaster, were enough to convince the school to make an exception. It would be tough, the handwritten letter from a Professor McGonagall said, and you’d have some things to make up, but they were giving you a chance. (She also hoped you’d left your penchant for trouble back in America.)

And so, on September 1st, you were the only fourth year in decades to have the Sorting hat placed upon their head – something you found very uncomfortable, with everyone’s eyes on you. _‘Look at the new American exchange student,’_ you thought, _‘how odd.’_ You were just thankful you and your sister got sorted into the same house: _Gryffindor._ From what you read, it seemed like it might not be so different from Thunderbird. (You also read that Slytherins were, like, evil, so thank Godric you didn’t end up there.)

You were following a prefect – a boy named David with a very dull voice that made it hard to focus – giving a tour to the first years and yourself when you were suddenly cut off by a tall boy with long black hair and excited eyes. Before you could speak, he took your face in his hands and got far too close for comfort.

“Could it be?” he whispered.

“Wha–”

Suddenly another boy was there, also tall, though with much messier hair. “Is she?” he asked, just as excited.

The first boy then seized your wrist and, upon seeing the tattoo, immediately began hopping in place. “She is!” he yelled. “Merlin, I can’t believe it!” He then took your face in his hands again. “I knew it as soon as I saw your face.”

“You wear them much better than him,” the other boy said.

Your eyes darted back and forth between the boys, finally starting to figure out what they were talking about, then stopped on the boy holding your cheeks. You again opened your mouth to speak, and were again cut off.

The touchy boy grabbed your hand and started dragging you up the stairs towards Gryffindor tower, where you were supposed to be anyway. “You know,” he said, “we had a bet going on how fit you would be.”

“Fit?” you asked, surprised to hear your own voice for the first time in the conversation.

“Y/N’s American, Padfoot!” The second boy poked you in the back. “He means pretty.”

“Hot, more like,” this Padfoot corrected. “Reckon Wormtail won, didn’t he?”

“What did Wormtail bet?” you asked.

 _“Very,”_ the still unnamed boy answered. “Pads said you’d be a minger.”

“And Prongs thought you’d be just average.”

You turned to look at the boy following you. “You’re Prongs? And what’s a minger?”

The boy nodded. “Yes, ma’am. And ‘minger’ is a very rude word that certainly does not describe you. Moony’s a lucky guy.”

“Uh, thanks.” You waited for a bit, then asked, “So this Moony guy, he’s… he’s _him?”_

“Yeah,” Prongs answered, smiling at you, while Padfoot got the three of you through a painting and into the Gryffindor common room. “He’s a good guy. The best of us, I’d say.”

Your heart was hammering in your chest with the realization of what was coming next, and you were pretty sure that you were seconds away from a panic attack, so you were about to ask the very-not-shy Padfoot to give you a second to collect yourself before he said –

“Oi, Moony! Get your arse over here.”

Prongs, who must have sensed your anxiety, placed his hands on your shoulders from behind you as another tall boy approached you. His eyes shifted from Padfoot, who was grinning, to you, and then there was a loud thump as a book hit the ground, totally forgotten as he stared at the scars on your face.

“I, uhh, are you…” He looked at Padfoot again and whispered, “Are you sure?”

Padfoot nodded. “Yeah, mate. Got the tattoo and everything,” he whispered back.

Prongs squeezed your shoulders. “Moony, this is Y/N. Y/N, this is Remus.”

The boys you came with exchanged a look before wandering off, leaving you and Remus staring at each other and not saying anything. After a long while, you broke and began to laugh. At first, Remus was taken aback, but he quickly found himself laughing too. When the two of you were pink-cheeked and out of breath, you calmed down and stared at each other.

“Y’know, Remus, three thousand miles was an awfully long way to go just to meet you.”

“I hope it turns out to be worth it,” he said almost nervously. He then gestured to your hand. “I’m just glad you won’t have to do that to yourself anymore.”

“It was getting kinda tedious,” you admitted.

He took your hand, blushing again. “I hated that you were doing that to yourself, but I did appreciate it, you know. It was nice knowing you were out there supporting me. So thank you.”

You placed your free hand on top of his and tilted your head to the side a bit. “Always.”

A small smile broke out on his face, and it occurred to you then how freaking _cute_ he was, which of course led to you blushing, too, because _damn,_ he looked good and he was yours.

He was yours. Finally, and suddenly, he was yours.

There was a strange squeak behind you, and you turned around to find several people – including the two boys who had ambushed you – staring from across the room.

“Don’t mind us,” a redheaded girl said.

“Yeah!” continued Padfoot. “We’re just waiting for you two to snog, ‘s all.”

“Most people snog,” said Prongs. Then, quieter, he added, “‘Cept me.”

Padfoot gestured to the redhead. “Lily here can’t stand him.”

“Fuck off,” Prongs huffed.

Remus rolled his eyes and wrapped an arm around your waist. “Let’s go somewhere else,” he said, still glaring at his friends.

“No!” Lily whined. “You two were so sweet.”

You turned back to Remus, nodding. “Yeah, let’s definitely get out of here.”


End file.
